


The Glitter of Broken Bottles

by Phoenix2319



Series: The Glitter of Broken Bottles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Sister, Bullies, Dangerous Binding Techniques, FTM, FTM John, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Family Issues, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Harry is a twat, It has chains, John Plays Guitar, John has dyed hair, John is busty, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mycroft is awesome, Pre T John, Punklock, Sherlock wears a black trench coat, Teenlock, Trans Character, Trans John, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock, Transman curves, ftm Sherlock, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix2319/pseuds/Phoenix2319
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock first saw John on the train.</p><p>"He was just like Sherlock, the slight dip under the shirt in the shoulders, the line at the base of the neck under the collar, the clothes on general. Not boys clothes. Maybe they were purchased by mistake or handed down, but the wear of them insisted that they were at least a year old, and from the way he was holding himself said he and his older sister had completely different body shapes, and that she would have been too vain to see him wearing her old clothes. Even before he transitioned."</p><p>Or, the time Sherlock saves John from transphobic bullies then proceeds to cause him injuries and slowly fall in love with him.</p><p>** I moved the rating up to mature because there happened to be a lot more cursing in the later chapters, I just didn't feel comfortable having it in the teen rating **</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Willow Scarlet Shea Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me while I was riding the train home from school, and I saw all of these broken bottles in the rocks along the tracks. The sun was making them sparkle, and because my English teacher worked some voodoo magic on me or something, I was seeing metaphors in everything and second guessing my life. And of course, my inner fan girl connected everything to Sherlock, so here you go. Sometimes things are more beautiful when they're imperfect, broken doesn't mean destroyed, other inspirational things. (Side note: In some places in the US we have a public transportation system called the RTD and it includes busses and trains that are above ground, so this is kind of an above ground tube AU? Idk, they live in the suburbs close to the metro city area)

Sherlock first saw John on the train. Well, before the train.

 

He was sitting on a green bench with a guitar case between his legs, resting his lips on the top seam. Just sitting. Nothing that extraordinary, nothing note worthy. No special fragrance in the slight wind, no specific way of sitting, no tap of the foot. Nothing. He was so very ordinary, like every other human on this god forsaken planet. Just like Sherlock.

 

_Yes._

 

That was it. That’s what drew in the tall boys attention. The slight dip under the shirt in the shoulders, the line at the base of the neck under the collar, the clothes on general. Not boys clothes. The deducing had started.

 

The hair was dyed black with a pink streak at the bangs, but the streak was faded, obviously a regretted decision. Too feminine, he’d gotten teased. Considerably clear skin for a teenager, but bags under the eyes communicated a recent stressful event, but not school, judging by the way he was interacting with the man who just sat next to him on the bench. His behavior insisted that he was having a poor time with his family, specifically the men in his life. Sherlock was just getting to deducing lint patterns on his plaid shirt when the train came and the boy stood to get on it. Not thinking of anything except to examine this fascinatingly plain boy in front of him, he followed.

 

The train was mostly vacant at this time of day, so Sherlock got lucky with a seat caddy corner to him. Perfect to observe without being seen, he let his curls drop over his face and pretended to be absorbed in his phone. The boy’s clothes were generically tailored to fit curves, show off a bust and a butt. Maybe they were purchased by mistake or handed down, but the wear of them insisted that they were at least a year old, and the way he was holding himself said he and his older sister had completely different body shapes, and that she would have been too vain to see him wearing her old clothes. Even before he transitioned.

 

He was transgender, it was blatantly obvious. The way his hairline was shaped, how he still crouched and submitted to older, bigger men subconsciously, and even when he caught himself he didn’t hold himself much higher, just grimaced. His shoes were cut to be cute, not cool. The jeans had embroidered pockets, and while they could be considered neutral when it came to gender, they hugged his thighs and flared after the swell of his calf. But it was only obvious to Sherlock. If you looked at him from a normal person's perspective it just looked like a chubby boy was wearing jeans that didn't fit him. His baby face could be attributed to being pre pubescent, even though he was probably over the age of 16.

 

“Oh look who it is, guys!” Sherlock looked up to see a gaggle of teenagers sneering in the boy’s direction. But the boy didn’t look up, he had music blaring in his ears.

 

“Oi, Janey.” The leader of the group called again. He was a tall boy with greasy blond hair, his clothes had thrift store written all over them, but they looked new and expensive enough that they hid the truth of his family’s wealth thoroughly. And although his need for control was ingrained in him from a semi abusive father, the way he held himself and forcibly commanded the control told a story of compensation for something he was lacking in his pants. And when he still didn’t get a response out of the other boy, he let out a frustrated growl and stalked forward.

 

Sherlock tensed. His better instincts told him to leave it be, what did he owe to this boy to protect him from a bully? But in the back of his mind, he knew he was going to intervene. The bully was calling the boy by a feminine name, clearly he was intending to harm the boy for being transgender. And it raged underneath Sherlock’s skin that anyone could be so pathetically thick to bully someone for something like that. Especially when the person was brave enough to come out and present as the gender they prefered. And he was still kind of high, that might have had something to do with it. When the bully got close enough to flick the boy in the head, Sherlock was crouching and glaring in his seat. The boy let out a startled yelp and scrambled to yank his earbuds out.

 

“Janey, Janey, Janey…” The bully taunted. “Don’t you know it's rude to ignore people?” Sherlock half expected him to ignore the person breathing on his face, and half expected him to start crying or sniveling. But he was pleasantly surprised when he matched the bullys glare with one of his own.

 

“Shove off, Collin.” He growled. His voice was deep for being pre hormones. But it was forced and cracking slightly. He obviously wanted to show off to this Collin bloke that he was masculine. But the bully didn't like that. He sneered and shoved the boy back into the train seat by his shoulders, the ‘ooph’ he let out made the bully smirk and his goonies snicker behind him. The boy’s fists clenched. He threw a punch and Sherlock stood up. The bully hit back and several of his goons tried to join in, Sherlock started towards them. A muffled cry and the sight of blood had him yanking two of them back by the collar. They choked and stayed down, he grabbed the main cause of the problem, yanking him back by his hair. The bully was tall, but Sherlock still had a few inches on him, and he was far more graceful than this brute. Spinning him with a flourish of his black trench coat and a jingle of chains, Sherlock had him back against the train window, one hand yanking his hair, the other at his throat. Collin looked like he was about to shit his pants as Sherlock glared into his eyes. The cocaine had probably made his pupils defy physics, and he was sure his hair had become a rats nest of wild curls. Matched with his height and the adrenaline, he was sure he looked pretty intimidating.

 

“Woah, heh, what’s your problem mate?” Collin whimpered. His voice cracked. He was absolutely terrified.

 

_Perfect._

 

“My _problem_ ,” Sherlock growled, pressing his thumb into the shaking boys adams apple. “Is that people like _you_ ,” he pressed harder, making him gag. “Are so ignorant it makes the surrounding area drop IQ points.” The greasy blond’s eyes rolled back in his head and he started sniffling. “Now, I sincerely suggest you leave this _boy_ alone, and take you and your gaggle of morons elsewhere. It would benefit you profoundly if you kept your mouth shut during your departure, and never speak down on anyone who is going through something your tiny nitwit brain can’t accept, ever again.” He shoved the boy against the window one last time, making his head smack with a velocity that would have knocked him out cold if he weren’t running so high on adrenaline, before backing away, letting the boy drop into a terrified slump. He stared up at Sherlock with tears running down his face for five seconds before he scrambled to get up and leave the train.

 

Sherlock flexed his hands and sighed. He was just getting ready to come down from the extra rush that little spat had given him, when the chain on his coat sleeve was tugged roughly, he was being pulled out of the train in the opposite direction from where the bullies had scampered off. He whipped around, trying to see who was pulling him, but he turned too fast and his head spun, causing him to trip face first off the train and into the person. Which just so happened to be the boy who caused him to fight in the first place. There was a quiet curse from the boy as he caught himself on his hands to avoid crushing his guitar, scraping them. He turned to look at Sherlock briefly before sitting up.

 

“Come on, someone probably called the cops.” He said through clenched teeth before standing up and walking off towards a coffee shop across the street. Sherlock pulled himself off the ground as well, following him.

 

They went in and sat in a booth near the back, the barista gave them a look, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what it meant until the boy across from him grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “not my date.” They sat at the booth in silence after the barista came and took their orders. She was a friendly Italian girl with a large frame named Angela, And when she brought their drinks out, she had given them a free brownie with a caramel heart piped on the side. The boy across from him blushed and said “he’s not my date,” for a second time. They sipped their respective drinks in silence.

 

“My name is John.” The boy said, still not looking up. Sherlock studied him for a few moments longer before he spoke. He took in the busted lip that had left a streak of blood down his chin. His hands looked like they hurt, and a flash of guilt stormed through Sherlock, surprising him. He had caused those injuries after he tried to save the boy, _John_ , from sustaining anything further from the bullies. And then he had been stupid enough to trip out of the train in the most ungraceful way possible.

 

“You should clean your hands.” He said. John looked up at him confused, then looked down at his hands and shrugged. But Sherlock saw the slight bob of John's throat, he was either intimidated by the deepness of Sherlock’s voice, or aroused. Sherlock couldn’t tell which.

 

“I’d rather do that at home than in a dirty cafe bathroom.” He said. He was trying to make his voice deeper. _Intimidated, then._ Sherlock nodded.

 

“Even so, washing them out couldn’t hurt. I could turn the taps for you if you'd like?” Sherlock was surprised by his own kindness. Normally it was just a snide remark and a swift exit. But this boy intrigued him. Beyond his normal curiosity about new things. John looked just as shocked as Sherlock felt, but tentatively nodded. They walked to the restrooms together, John automatically going to the girls, but Sherlock pulled on his sleeve and shook his head. John blushed and followed him onto the men's, they were single stall, so he needn't worry about any cis gendered males walking in on them.

 

“There's Brulidine and some Paracetamol in my case, along with some plasters.” John muttered. Sherlock nodded, turning the taps on to warm water before opening John’s guitar case. John let out a noise of distress when he saw the inside. The bridge had snapped off during their encounter with the pavement. Sherlock gulped and looked up to see John’s face. He looked stricken, like someone had just cut his dog’s ears off.

 

“I…” Sherlock didn’t know what to say, He couldn’t fix it on his own, and if he asked Mycroft to get it fixed he would be placed under scrutiny. But he did have money. He was going to spend it on cocaine… But suddenly this seemed more important than his next high.

 

“I can pay for it.” He offered, moving to grab his wallet out of his trench coat, but John stopped him.

 

“No, don’t worry about it. It was a cheap guitar any way. It was already coming loose, it was only a matter of time.” But the tone in his voice said otherwise. Sherlock gave in for now, but he was going to slip him the money some how. Later, though, now he needed to help John with his hands.

 

He found a small compartment under the neck support of the case. He only found the plaster box, an inhaler, and a roll of compression bandages, but after opening the box he found the others inside. He scowled at the bandages. _John should know better_ , Sherlock thinks. The bandage would harm his ribs if he wore it for too long. Sherlock scowls as he gives the Brulidine tube to John, who has been gently brushing rocks out of his palms in the lukewarm water of the sink. Sherlock watches John's hands as he works, they are gentle but firm, small but useful. Just like the boy himself. After a few minutes of coating and plastering, John turns the water off with the tips of his fingers, handing the box back to Sherlock wordlessly. He took out two pills and handed them to John, then put everything back in its compartment and closed the case, discretely slipping a hundred pound note into the middle of the binding bandage. He carried the case back to their table, despite John’s grumble that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. On the way back, Angela sent Sherlock a secretive wink and brought out refills for their half empty drinks. The booth was silent again.

 

“Why are you doing this?” John asked. Sherlock looked up from his drink and stared into John’s eyes, they were a weird color of blue, almost grey. And the blackness of his dyed hair only enunciated them more.

 

“I hate bullies.” Sherlock replied simply. John furrowed.

 

“But still. You could have just yelled at them, but you didn’t. You fought them, you scared the shite out of them, and now you’ve helped me bandage up and you’re still here.” John replied. Sherlock put his hands together and leaned them against his mouth.

 

“I empathize with you.” He said. It shocked him how true the statement was. He’d never empathized with anyone before, only pitied them. His parents thought he was autistic because of his complete lack of boundaries and care towards other people and their feelings. But of course they were wrong. He could feel. He could be cautious. He could be normal and restricted like all of the other dull people in this world, but he decided he wouldn’t. So he didn’t. Until now, that is.

 

“Look, I don’t need your pity, I threw the first punch, I can handle my own. This isn't the first time they’ve messed with me, and it won't be the last. I could have handled them.” John silently raged across the table. Sherlock shook his head.

 

“You misunderstand, I empathize with you, not pity you.” John snorted.

 

“What’s the difference?” He asked dryly, not meeting Sherlock's eyes and glaring at the table in between them.

 

“To pity someone is to feel sorry for them, to empathize with someone is to feel the same way they do.” Sherlock stated. “Really, John. You’ve just earned A’s in all of your classes this term. You’re well on your way to sixth form, and earning a grant for university. I would think you would know the difference.” Sherlock took a long sip out of his lukewarm drink. John thought for a second, then looked up confused.

 

“You.. feel the same way… how? Exactly?” He was being cautious. _He doesn’t believe that I’m trans or doesn’t want to read the situation wrong. He’s trying to be polite and not imply things. How cleverly dull._

 

“I know what it feels like to be bullied. To be called the wrong name, the wrong gender. Even by family. But luckily, my brother isn’t so daft. I’ve been on hormones since I hit puberty at the age of thirteen. I do apologize that yours hasn’t been even the least bit of kind.” Sherlock replied.

 

“Wait, so, you’re..?” John looked dumbfounded, but Sherlock just hummed a response. John blew out a breath and sat back against the booth. He thought for a few seconds then frowned. “Wait, what do you mean ‘mine hasn’t been the least bit of kind?’” Sherlock sighed, giving John a look.

 

“Your clothes are for girls, even though they’ve been branded as gender neutral or tomboy. You have bags under your eyes, meaning you’ve overextended yourself in school and in life. is This because you have no one to fall back on, you must stay strong for yourself. It’s obvious that you have an older sibling, just by the way you act around others. I can tell it’s a sister because you have no small masculine tendencies you would have picked up from an older brother, whom would be your role model during this time. Unsupportive, that one is easy. Little self confidence, and since she’s older, she must have a job. But here you are binding with a compression bandage, wearing girls clothes, and cleaning yourself up after being pushed around by some bullies.” Sherlock looked up from the table but didn’t really look at John, because he didn’t want to read the ‘go to hell’ in his eyes. “It doesn’t seem ‘kind’ to me.”

 

“Brilliant.” John breathed. Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to his face, taking in the look of awe without comprehension.

 

“What?” It was sarcasm, it had to be.

 

“I mean, you basically know my life story from just looking at me, and we’ve only known each other for , what, an hour or so? That’s bloody amazing, if you ask me.” John was being sincere. It struck Sherlock silent for a few moments.

 

“Oh.” He muttered, still frozen in place. John shuffled, looking bashful.

 

“Sorry, a lot has been going on lately, and you’re right. My sister doesn’t ask me what I would like for dinner, let alone how I’m feeling. It’s just kind of nice to have someone get it without all that explaining, and then the fear of being judged is gone.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the table again.

 

“No, no,” Sherlock started, coming out of his haze. “It’s.. Fine. That's just.. Not what people normally say.” He leaned back against the booth, mimicking John’s posture. John looked up shyly, the pink stripe of his hair clashing with the blue grey eyes in a striking way.

 

“Well what do they normally say?” He asked, smirking.

 

“Piss off.” Sherlock answered with a small smile of his own, meeting John’s gaze across the table.

 

It was at that moment that Sherlock realized two things:

 

John's laugh was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

  
And his heart was most definitely not supposed to be doing that.


	2. Jane Elizabeth Watson

 

John laid back on his mattress, putting his hands behind his head, reaccounting his day. Sherlock was a strange man. The way he spoke made him seem posh, but he dressed like a scene punk. And the words he used, and how he said them? Even if he wasn’t posh, he was damn smart.

 

After they finished their drinks, Sherlock asked for his phone. They exchanged numbers and Sherlock disappeared down the street with a flourish of his coat and a jingle of the silver chains. John just stood and watched after him for a few moments, mesmerized. He was so bizarre, and at first glance, he looked like a murderous psychopath, but his eyes were so beautiful and pained. His hands were cautious and gentle, but rough from wear. And damn it all, John needed a friend. He needed someone who understood his pain without prejudice, someone who didn’t think he was being petty, who knew his self loathing lied further than typical teenaged vanity. And Sherlock was right. About everything.

 

His parents turned a blind eye, and when they did acknowledge him, they only told him how beautiful he was becoming. His mother preened about how he looked exactly like her: short, chubby, large breasts, thick blond hair, and a girlishly soft voice. His dad would mention how John would have failed as a son, how he didn't act like a boy, or dress like one, so he wouldn’t treated like one. And John hated it. Every bit of it.

 

No matter how fast he ran, how much weight he lifted, he always kept the pudge of hips and breasts underneath his clothing. But the bandages helped with that. He knew they were dangerous. His left shoulder always ached when he took them off, but the pain kept him in the moment. The flatter image of his chest kept him sane. And just to get back at his mother for cooing over his hair, he chopped it off and dyed it black, the pink stripe a jibe to his father, but it backfired immediately and he wasn’t able to wash it out completely. He tried to act like a boy, and dress like one, he really did. But his body fit weird under the boy clothes he tried on. They were too tight around the fat that haunted him, blatantly showing his curves and bust more so than girls clothes. He’d even been doing some voice exercises he found on the internet, to make his voice deeper. But it didn't work that well. So he just opted for staying silent most days. He didn't speak if there were more than 10 people in a classroom, in fear that they would misgender him behind his back. His teachers pitied him, thought he was shy or had a stutter, even though they hardly ever called him by his male name, let alone the right pronouns.

 

Tears burned in his eyes and he cursed. _You do not cry, Watson_ . He scolded himself. _Crying is for weak little girls, do you want to prove them right? That you actually aren't a boy?_ But that made the tears slip out. He never was good for self pep talks. He shook his head and sat up, looking around his small room. Meek. Unimpressive. Small. Just like him. He sighed and reached down to grab his bag, wincing as the edge of the bandage cut into his skin. _I really should take it off_ , he thought, then flashes of his naked chest squirmed their way into his mind, making him grimace. _After my bio homework_. He was silently grateful it was Friday, meaning his parents would be running errands all day tomorrow, and Harry would either be at a friends, at the park, or in her room and he would basically have the house to himself. He had every intention to finish his only homework before tomorrow, but he fell asleep halfway through.

  


John woke up to a pounding at his bedroom door. He groaned and rolled over to place his pillow over his head. _Just a few more minutes._

 

“Jane, you lazy shite.” Harry screeched through the door. John just groaned louder and rolled onto his stomach, before gasping at the sharp pain in his chest. _Shit, the binder!_ “There's someone here for you.” His sister yelled. John muttered out a weak ‘okay’ and sat up slowly, trying to minimize the pain in his ribs.

 

He’d fallen asleep with the binding on, _oh my god you utter moron._ He pulled his shirt over his head carefully and looked down to examine the damage. It had rolled into a tight coil underneath his breasts, his nipples were red and raw and the metal clasp had left a scratch from under his armpit to the edge of the bandage. He pulled the clasp off and the coiled cloth immediately unwound, leaving his skin burning slightly from the sudden rush of blood to his nerve endings. He bit his lip and unwound the rest of it, throwing it in a crumpled pile to the floor. There was a deep bruise circling the middle of his ribs, he was sure it went all the way round to his back. It was darkest on his sides, where his lungs had tried to expand but couldn’t. It looked like he had been strung up to a tree under his breasts and left there for a week.

 

“John.” John startled, quickly pulling the covers up over his chest to hide himself, wincing as he jostled the bruise. He looked up wide eyed to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

 

“Christ Sherlock! Don’t you know not to barge into people’s rooms without knocking‽” John was breathing hard, that scared the hell out of him.

 

“I don’t see why, it's not like I don’t know what you look like underneath your clothes. It’s basic biology, just a transport for your brain. People's views on sex and sexuality is too intolerant, they’re so preoccupied trying to keep teenagers from having sex, and keeping children innocent, that they fail to actually teach them important things. Like how to not be an imbecile, but I guess they can’t teach what they don’t know.”

 

During his little speech, he had moved around John’s bedroom, taking in every inch. His full sized bed was shoved into a corner, it was messy, but it looked comfortable. A small table with a lamp was shoved between it and the wall, which had two large windows covered in black drapes. Along the wall opposite the bed and next to the door was a chest of drawers, a reasonably sized TV placed on it, a mirror between it and the door. The wall opposite the windows held a desk with an old laptop on it, a well loved desk chair nestled underneath. The final corner held a circular rug, upon it was John’s (now broken) guitar and a bean bag. The walls were covered in various paintings and book shelves. A black and white print of Big Ben was centered above the desk, and a single shelf above the bed held a stereo and various pictures of friends and family. There was a laundry bin to the right of the bed.

 

Simplistic.

 

But far from dull and boring. It smelled like John, it looked like John. This was where John was created. Sherlock inhaled and pulled the desk chair out of its nook, managing to sit cross-legged on it, despite his lanky limbs. Today he sported a dark purple beanie(or maroon, it was too dark for John to tell from a distance) along with several facial piercings he hadn’t noticed the day prior. A small ring in his left brow, two balls on either side of the bridge of his nose, a simple silver ring on his right nostril, two similar rings on the left side of his bottom lip, and his ears had more than John could count. His left ear had silver rings all the way up to a bar through the top, whereas the right only had a chain connecting from a second hole to a cartilage piercing. Small gauges were in both, one had the image of a bee, and the other a magnifying glass. He was breathtaking. Sherlock must have noticed him staring.

 

“I took them out yesterday because I knew I wasn’t going to be in a part of town I trusted. I didn’t want to risk getting mugged over £12 worth of surgical steel.” John nodded and watched silently as Sherlock blew out a breath and spun the chair around.

 

“Sherlock..?”

 

“Bored.” He spun the chair again. John sighed and rolled his eyes, shifting under his blanket, noting how sore his ribs were. Nothing should be broken, he didn’t have an impact on anything, at worst a deep bruising, but that was still improbable. He pulled the blanket back a bit and looked down at himself. The bruising wasn’t too bad on his breasts, the stretch marks on the sides had turned purple, his nipples had turned a shade darker, but really it was his ribs that ached.

 

“Is everything okay?” John looked up startled to find Sherlock staring at him. He cleared his throat and nodded.

 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just a little sore.” He shuffled the blanket back onto his shoulders awkwardly, and glanced at Sherlock’s face. He didn’t look convinced. John rolled his eyes and pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could.

 

“So, you were expecting to do something?” Sherlock nodded and went back to spinning his chair. John pursed his lips. “So… What exactly did you have in mind?” Sherlock sighed.

 

“If I had something in mind I wouldn’t be bored, I’d be doing it. That’s why I came here. Because I’m bored and I have nothing to do. And you’re interesting. That too.” John nodded and glanced over to his dresser. Cowering under a blanket while naked and vulnerable wasn't his idea of being a gracious host, he would need clothes to play that part.

 

“Um, right… Listen, Sherlock, do you think you could, I don’t know, go wait in the living room or something? I need to get changed and, well…” John scratched at the back of his head. Sherlock looked at him incomprehensibly, then promptly nodded and walked out of the room. Most certainly not wobbling from spinning in the chair.

 

John took a deep breath , held it, and let it out in a sigh. _This is going to be a long day._

 

* * *

 

 

Dressed in a loose jumper and jim jam bottoms, John wandered down stairs to see Harry and Sherlock having a staring match in the living room. Well, Harry was staring at him, while he was taking in the (rather bland) decor of the room. He cleared his throat, making Harry look over to him.

 

"If you two stain the sofa I will not be taking the blame for it." She sneered. John blushed to the tips of his ears and cast his gaze to the dirty shag carpet.

 

"Harry..." He whined. "It's really not like that." His sister gave him a sceptical look.

 

"Uh huh. Well, I'm off to Clara's. Leave a sock on the front door just in case." And with that, she threw on her jacket and walked out of the house. John swallowed and rubbed his hands down his face.

 

"I was expecting her to be straight, or at least mildly preppy. I'm severly dissapointed in myself. Normally its only a small thing I miss." Sherlock muttered from the sofa. John nodded, not really understanding, but he figured it had something to do with that "deducing" thing he did. He walked over to the sofa and sat on the edge of the cushion, tense.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock flopped onto his back, throwing his legs over John's lap while exclaiming:

 

"Bored!" John startled, then started laughing as Sherlock proceeded to scowl at him.

 

"Well what on earth do you want me to do about it?" He asked, smiling lightly.

 

"Entertain me." The statement was simple enough, but the way he said it sounded dangerous... and mildly erotic. Which was most definitely being misinterpreted. He swallowed, managing to keep his smile and not blush too terribly.

 

"And how do you suppose I do that?" He asked, praying to whatever deity that Sherlock wouldn't make this sexual. He had just gained this friend, and he would very much like not to loose him over something as ridiculous as a crush.

 

"Well I don't know, now do I John? Otherwise I would have been doing said thing, which may or may not have included you. I loath repeating myself John. If this companionship is to continue, then I would highly recommend trying to keep up." He was sarcastic as all get out, which made John relax.

 

"Walk in the park?" He suggested. Sherlock 'tsked'.

 

"Dull." John sighed.

 

"Watch telly?"

 

"Honestly John, why would I make the walk all the way from my house to yours to watch telly?" John leaned back against the sofa cushions and looked at the ceiling.

 

"Gardening, cooking, shopping, arts and crafts?"

 

"You don't have a garden, cooking and eating are dull, shopping is too pedestrian, and really John? I'm 16 years old."

 

"Wait, what?" John looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

 

"What?"

 

"You're only 16?" _There is no way_.

 

"Yes, why?"

 

"There is no way I'm older than you. That's... just not right." Sherlock looked almost surprised now. Apparently he had thought he was older than John as well.

 

"Well how old are you?"

 

"Almost 18." Sherlock gaped at him.

 

"But... You said I was right about your schooling..." John laughed.

 

"Yes, I'm taking my A levels right now." Sherlock searched him and pouted, seeing everything he'd missed, working himself into a mini sulk."

 

"So honestly though, what do you want to do?" Sherlock just shrugged indifferently, still upset about his miscalculation.

 

"Fine then, what do you normally do in your free time?" Sherlock tensed just slightly and took a few seconds to reply.

 

"Nothing good." He said. But before John could ask him to clarify, he sat up on his sofa cushion, then leaped to his feet, grabbing John's hand on the way.

 

"You know I've never actually been on a proper walk, just for the hell of it. It sounds intriguing, I could gather some useful information about the general public through this exercise." John just barely got him to stop pulling him out the door long enough for him to get his shoes on.

 

* * *

 

 

They ended up walking for about ten minutes before John's stomach remembered he hadn't eaten anything yet today, and started protesting loudly. He blushed when Sherlock took a sharp turn, leading them down a street lined with shops and deli's.

 

"Sherlock I don't have any money for this, I can just eat when we get back." He tried. But the other boy was determined.

 

"I'll pay." He said casually. John tried to sway him but after just one attempt he realized there was no refusing, and then when he tried to suggest the cheapest place he could, Sherlock scoffed and pulled on his jumper sleeve, leading him into a semi fancy restaurant. The hostess gave them an odd look as they walked in. Massively tall Sherlock with his trench coat and piercings, followed by the devastatingly short John in his plain looking jumper and pyjama bottoms. He was sure they made quite the sight. But she quickly schooled her features into a smile, leading them towards a table buried all the way in the back by the kitchens. Sherlock didn't seem put off by the obvious feeling of unwelcomeness, he seemed to bask in the privacy.

 

"Sherlock what are you doing?" John asked.

 

"Buying you lunch, of course. Can't have my new companion starving to death on my watch."

 

"Why are you taking me to a restaurant though?" John didn't quite know how to process this. It was borderline flirtatious, wasn't it? Taking him to this restaurant, paying, and he also bought his coffee yesterday. They only just met, and this boy was about to spend more money on him than his parents even for the monthly food trip for the entire family.

 

"Why wouldn't I take you to a restaurant? It has better quality food than any of the other health code violations on this street, based on our appearances and this establishment's clientele, I knew we would get a semi private booth so that we could talk in peace. Because I imagine the topic of our gender will eventually come up today, and just in case it happens while we're eating, I thought you would be more willing to talk while out of earshot of the general public." John took a moment to chew on the information, and just as he was about to respond the waiter came to their table to ask for their drinks.

 

"Just a water for me." Sherlock said. The waiter nodded and looked to John.

 

"And for you, miss?" They both flinched.

 

"Um, I'll have a coke." His voice had gone to its natural high register in his nervousness. He swallowed, and looked down at the table cloth. The waiter nodded, jotting the drinks down and walking away.

 

"Why didn't you correct him?" John just shook his head.

 

"It happens all the time, It's fine." Sherlock clenched his hands on the table.

 

"It's not-"

 

"Sherlock, honestly, it's fine. He's just a waiter."

 

"Do you correct your parents?" _Damn him_. He shook his head. "Then that statement is invalid."

 

The waiter came back with their drinks, and neither of them had looked at the menu yet so they had another few minutes before he came back and asked for their orders. John was dreading it. He never thought ordering food could be so nerve wracking. Everything looked so expensive too. £15 was the cheapest he found so far. He glanced at Sherlock, who caught his eyes across the table.

 

"Order whatever you want John." He would get the £15 one, even if it was some weird pasta dish he'd never heard of. "Which means the crab stuffed ravioli, not the pesto and penne." John glared at him.

 

"And what if I wanted the lasagna?" He asked.

 

"It's your second choice, a close second, but still second. You will always go for the shellfish option, someone in your family is allergic, aren't they? And because you really can't get decent shellfish at a "lower class" restaurant, you don't get it that often, but it's your favorite."

 

John stared at him. How on earth does he do that.

 

"Are you ready to order?" Sherlock swiftly told the waiter his order, and told him to halve it. They both looked to John.

 

"And for you, miss?" John swallowed. Sherlock's eyes cut into him.

 

"I'll have the, um... " He looked to Sherlock and then back to the waiter. "The crab ravioli.. But uh... Actually..." His voice had gone high again, so he cleared his throat and dropped it a little. "I'm a boy..." The waiter blushed and his eyes widened.

 

"Oh I am so sorry about that, sir!" He exclaimed, looking extremely guilty. "Um, I'll get your food out as soon as possible... Again I'm so so sorry." John smiled to put the poor man at rest.

 

"It's fine, easy mistake." The waiter nodded and made an awkward retreat.

 

"I think we might get a free dessert out of that." Sherlock mused. John gaped at him.

 

"Now that he's humiliated? Oh yeah, I bet he'd be _so_ willing to just dish out a free desert."

 

"He apologised three times."

 

"And?"

 

"It will be the brownie, with walnuts."

 

"Haha, of course 'Lock." They started giggling. After a spout of childish laughter, Sherlock looked up at him.

 

"Was I right?" He asked. John frowned.

 

"About what?"

 

"The deduction." Sherlock pretended to be nonchalant, and not care by looking down into his water glass as he suckled (gnawed) on the straw.

 

"Oh. Uh yeah, actually. We don't get to eat shellfish very often. I remember being about five, I think? Anyway, we went over to my gran's, and it was her 50'th, so she went all out with the catering and stuff. There was cold shrimp with cocktail sauce, lobster stuffed shrimp, snow crab legs, and full lobster tails. Everyone got a bowl of clam chowder as well. It was hell for my mum, especially when they didn't have anything except salad for her to eat. My gran didn't really like her at the time, because she got pregnant with Harry when she was 16, and then had me when she was 20. She thinks Gran thought she was a slut or something, and a gold digger, because Dad was the oldest son and Grandad has this huge company. And she was probably right, because when Grandad died, it turned out Gran had talked him out of leaving Dad anything in the will, because of Mum. It was all a huge mess really. We had to move out of our house because Grandad's bank wasn't automatically paying the house bills anymore, and they hadn't been, but we didn't know. So now Dad's in debt, and Mum never had a job, so now she does cleaning..." John stared down at the table. _It's all really depressing_ , he realized.  _But I've never told anyone about that before..._

 

He didn't even work through what was happening with Harry, because that had been around the time she had come out as a lesbian to their parents. She was too busy sneaking out and partying to care about her younger sister, only 11 years old, being told to sort things she wanted to keep in one box and things she wanted to get rid of in another. And John hadn't wanted to get rid of anything. He loved all of his toys. He didn't have many, only about 20 or so stuffies. They were all soft, and they had sparkly glass eyes. They didn't tell lies, they only listened. But he was told he was only allowed to keep ten. It was heart breaking to him. These were his best friends. How could he choose which ones he didn't want, and which he liked more than the others? In the end, Mum had chosen for him. And he was devastated when she chose all the wrong ones. Because one, that meant that his favorites were now donated or sold and he would never see them again, and two, he realized he had favorites, when he had thought he loved all of them equally.

 

"I'm sorry." John looked up at Sherlock, he hadn't been expecting the other boy to speak.

 

"What?"

 

"It was a bad memory, I apologize for making you relive it. I hope I haven't spoiled our lunch." He looked a tad bit guilty, and not quite sure how to deal with it. His face kept making weird twists and turns.

 

"No, it's fine, really." John assured. "It was good to actually tell someone. Even Harry didn't really talk to me. She was too busy with herself to care I guess. It's nice to talk to someone..." Sherlock gave a sort of grimacing smile.

 

"Glad to be of service." The waiter ended up getting their meals to them a few seconds after their little conversation, and just as Sherlock predicted, complementary brownies with pecans (Sherlock cursed himself for it) were brought to them after Sherlock paid the bill. Lunch had been pleasant, they talked easily, and even had a few giggling fits. It left John feeling like something good was finally about to happen.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while to write, I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with this fic, how many chapters and such, but I think I have a pretty solid plan now. Updates will be infrequent, as I do not have a summer job yet, but I do plan to have one eventually -.- Thanks for reading! Comments are much appreciated :3
> 
> Love~  
> Phoenix2319


	3. William Sherlock Scott Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My god. Its been so long I'm sorry I'm a bad person /.\
> 
> But seriously ya'll are so patient. I just went through a really big change in my life and it took a lot of time to adjust. But I'm finally writing again! God I've missed it. I'm also on Testosterone now :3 That's been a huge boost in my mood. Thank me being home sick with leg pains for this chapter ^~^

"Cocaine." Sherlock said. He had been wanting to answer John's question ever since he's asked it earlier in the day.

"Sorry, what?" John asked. Most people didn't start a conversation at the mention of a hard drug, but then again, this boy wasn't exactly normal.

"You asked what I do in my free time." He clarified. "I do cocaine."

John's walk stuttered and he fell behind a few paces, until he just completely stopped walking. Sherlock sighed and stopped as well, turning to face John but not moving to stand next to him. He appeared to be re-evaluating him, trying to see the dead beat junkie underneath the coat and the personality. Sherlock was surprised when John uttered a short laugh.

"Okay, yeah, sure." He snorted. "And I huff draino." Sherlock gave him a pained look before turning around, stiffly. Of course he would think its a joke. Only Mycroft ever took him seriously, but he was just a control freak.

"Wait... You're serious..?" John asked quietly.

"Of course I'm serious." His voice was tight. He walked over to a park bench a few feet away and sat on the edge of it. Hunched. John cautiously walked over and sat next to him.

"Did you… do anything today?" John asked after a few stale seconds had passed. Sherlock shook his head.

"Of course not."

"What about yesterday?" John asked. Sherlock hesitated, then nodded.

"But I wasn't high when I met you." He was quick to reassure. John bit his lip and nodded. They both looked down to their laps. It was beyond awkward, Sherlock was regretting his decision of telling John, because what was he trying to gain? It's not like he was wanting to be stopped, it wasn't a cry for help. He wasn't that mediocre and pathetically predictable. He just felt like John should know. After all, they'd become fast friends. And friends deserved to know the worst about each other.

"So..."

"I just thought you'd like to know. Just in case I do see you when I'm high. So that you aren't confused, or so that you don't ruin my high by being worried. All my needles are fresh, I get it from a trusted dealer, and I have a rule of getting tested once a month just in case. I'm completely healthy."

"A completely healthy drug addict. Sure. Okay." John scoffed. Sherlock sent a harsh glare at the chubby boy next to him, rising from the bench with his fists clenched.

"I didn't tell you so that you could patronise me." He snapped.

"Then why did you tell me?" John demanded. His voice got high and squeaky when he was upset, and Sherlock watched his body language completely change. He recognized the flash of dysphoria that tore through him. He'd felt that way about his own voice before. Sherlock took a deep breath, fighting the urge to just give up. It was bound to end up badly anyway.

"Potential colleges should know the worst about each other, shouldn't they?" John just stared at him for a few moments.

“Yeah I guess so.” He looked away. They sat in silence, mulling over the conversation in their own heads. The silence lasted a few minutes, long enough for Sherlock’s feet to start to ache from standing in the same position for too long.

“Why do you do it?” His voice was soft, Sherlock almost didn’t catch the words. He shifted his stance, folding his arms.

“Because when I’m high I’m not bored, but my mind is quiet. I can think more clearly, and... “ John looked up at him.

“And..?” He prompted.

“It makes me feel good.” Sherlock admitted. “My body feels weightless, I’m not hungry or uncomfortable, I’m allowed to just exist in my mind without my transport getting in the way.” John nodded.

“I don’t like it.” He stated. Sherlock nodded.

“I knew you wouldn’t, and I‘m not asking you to.” John nodded. Eventually Sherlock sat down on the bench again, this time less hunched. They sat for a few minutes just thinking, then John stood up and reached for his hand.

“Well, that's enough moping for the day. Are we going to finish this walk or what? That ravioli isn’t going to burn its own calories.” Sherlock grinned at him and took his hand.

 

* * *

 

  
They meandered the park for the good part of three hours, just talking about nonsense. Sherlock deduced the lives of several strangers, and John saw no flaws in the deductions and facts. Eventually John’s chest started getting sore, so they made their way back to his house. When they arrived, his mother's car was parked on the kerb, making John anxious.

“Uh, Sherlock, I have to tell you something too.” John said quietly, stopping just before the front steps. Sherlock looked down at him in understanding, but John was already taking a breath to explain.

“My mum, she uh, well she really likes men. And wine. And well, she likes to drink when she gets home. Same as my dad, but he doesn't get too bad. And well-”

“John it's okay. I deduced this morning.” Sherlock inturupted. The smaller boy nodded and took a breath before unlocking the door with shaky hands. The door opened with a creak and instantly the smell of cigarettes and stale wine filled the air. John sighed and set his shoulders, leading the way into the house. His mother was on the couch with a cig pinched dainty between two fingers, and a glass of red wine clasped in the other. His mother looked up with a tired, drunk smile.

“Janey… Oh hello darling. Harry told me you were out all day with a man, she was right.” His mother finished with a wink. Sherlock stiffened next to him, already deciding he disliked this woman.

“I-erm, yeah. This is Sherlock, mum. Sherlock, this is my mum.” His mother stumbled to stand from the couch. The two boys took a few steps backwards until they were flush with the patio door, but that didn't stop John's mum from wandering over to them, placing her hand on Sherlock’s chest.

“Sherlock~” She purred. “My thats a wonderful name. Very exotic.” She was practically on top of him. John flushed in embarrassment. He’d forgotten to tell Sherlock how utterly desperate his mother was, however he probably deduced it the moment they stepped in the door.

“Thank you, I chose it.” Sherlock said to John’s mother, a slight sneer forming on his lips. His mother hummed without comprehending and backed away with a stumble.

“Oh did you now?” She tried to wink, but it just looked like she was having a facial spasm.

“Yeah, well, we’ll just be going upstairs, mum.” John tried to shoo Sherlock to the stairs, but he was grabbed roughly on the arm.

“Oh no you’re not, you slut.” His mum growled, all the playful sexualness was imediatly replaced with seething rage. “The last thing I need is another delinquent harlett in my house, your sister’s curiosity was bad enough, but at least she can’t get knocked up.” John flinched, this was going worse than he ever imagined.

“I apologize, madam. I did not know you felt so strongly about your children entertaining in their rooms, shall we sit outside instead?” Sherlock asked, his voice was smooth like butter, making John’s mother loosen her grip, the “sultry” smile fading back into place.

“Oh my, I mean, yes. That's perfectly fine. Such a respectable young man.” Sherlock had worked his charm to the best of his abilities, and seeing that it was a success, he dragged John into the patio before his mother could yell again.

John flushed scarlet.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock, I-”

“No need to apologise, John. I mean, can you blame her? I’m quite irresistible.” Sherlock bat his lashes at John, making the younger boy snicker

“Oh for sure.” He chortled. They stood in silence for a few minutes, gazing about the dead grass in John’s paltry back yard. John sighed and motioned for Sherlock to take a seat on the swinging chair. It was more of a love seat, two cushions with tattered fabric covers, connected to a rusty spring that allowed the users to kick their feet and “glide” back and forth. After a few terrifying screeches they silently agreed just to sit. Sherlock pulled a pack of cigarettes out of one of his many pockets, silently asking John if it was alright. After a small nod, he lit up and sat back.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” John asked. Sherlock looked over at him in surprise.

“You want to see me tomorrow?” John laughed.

“Well of course, silly. I like spending time with you. You’re like minded and actually want to be my friend. Not to mention you’re pretty intimidating so people don't try to pick on me.” He stated sheepishly. Sherlock hummed and took a drag. The sun was starting to set and John let out a sigh.

“You should probably get going. My dad will be home soon, he’s worse than my mother.” Sherlock smirked.

“So both of your parents are going to try to get in my pants?” He joked. John shoved his shoulder.

“Oh come off it, I said I was sorry.” He giggled a tiny bit before sobering up. “No, he’s just an arse is all. Mum doesn’t care about piercings and tattoos and what not, just, you know, gay stuff. My dad is pretty conservative about everything. Kind of sexist too. He doesn’t think I should be friends with boys because he thinks that's why I’m trans.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Can I stay for a few more minutes?” He pleaded. John gave him an exasperated sigh with a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth.

“Fine, but only until you finish that.” He nodded towards the cigarette. Sherlock’s body seemed to wiggle slightly with happiness, making John’s stomach flutter around a bit.

_Don’t start doing that. No no no no no no. He’s the first decent person to come into your life since grade school, and you do not think he’s cute! Don’t ruin it by being gay Watson! John chided himself._

“So what do you normally do on Sundays?” Sherlock inquired. John shrugged.

“Homework.” He stated, the older boy threw his head back with a groan.

“Boring!” John snickered.

“Well alright then, Mr.Drama Queen. What do you normally do on Sundays?” He giggled. Sherlock sniffed at the comment and leered at him down his nose.

“Annoy my brother. It’s his only day off, I like to keep him working, ‘least he go soft.” Sherlock smirked as John shook his head.

“You’re a bad man.”

“Well, I haven't any dolls to play with. Don’t blame me, blame my awful caregivers.” Even though the statement was meant to be charming and playful, the truth behind it left a bitter look on Sherlock's face. John still laughed good heartedly. They sat for a minute in silence.

“What about the museum? The one on fourth. They’re having an exhibit on modernised medicine that looks interesting. Theres also a free planetarium show at 2.” Sherlock gave him a look.

“So were you already planning on going?” John looked bashful and shook his head,

“I just frequent the museum, and I happened to notice that there's a free show every Sunday at 2. Really, all I did was pay attention.” They joked for another few minutes before Sherlock put out his cig in the ashtray beside him. John looked over at his house with a sigh.

“I guess it's time for you to go now.” Sherlock nodded and stood from the swing.

Inside, John’s mother was snoring away on the couch so she wouldn’t be a bother. John almost didn't want him to go. Having a friend who wasn't judgmental was a relief. He didn’t have to walk on eggshells around the eccentric youth. He could just be himself, and that was refreshing. They paused at the front door, John's hand on the knob. Sherlock’s hand went on his shoulder.

“I’ll text you as soon as I get home.” He promised. John nodded.

“Right.” he opened the door and Sherlock walked past him, his hand trailing down John’s arm as he crossed the threshold. John let out a breath and shut the door after him. He glanced over at his mother on the couch and sighed. He walked over and grabbed the wine glass from her hand, then the bottle off the table. A nightly routine that saddened him increasingly more every night. He father would be home soon, and dinner wasn’t on the table. That meant John either had to make something fast or suffer through a screaming match until someone starting throwing bottles.

Pasta was quick and easy, all he needed were some vegetables without mold on them (not like anyone would eat them cooked anyway) and a can of sauce from the pantry. He set everything to cook and opened up a can of oranges, not finding any produce in the refrigerator that he could save. His father walked in the door as soon as he was straining the noodles and setting the table.

“Jane, it's good to see you in the kitchen.” John didn’t meet his eyes and made himself a plate to take upstairs.

“Jane, I was speaking to you.” John grit his teeth and walked towards the stairs.

“Jane!” A had gripped his shoulder, preventing him from going any further. The shout woke his mother on the couch, making her notice her husband was home and wipe her lipstick off her mouth, causing it to smear.

“Let me go.” John said steadily.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, Janey.” His father growled.

“That's not my name!” He whipped around to face his father, almost spilling his plate over the front of the man towering over him. His father wasn’t a tall man, he would only come up to Sherlock’s shoulder, maybe a bit more, but he was a sturdy man. Blue piercing eyes and an extremely bushy handlebar moustache, if he wasn't so angry, he’d be charming. His chest was as wide as a barrel and his hands were thick from years of hard work. He could inflict pain very easily, and he used people’s fear of pain to control them. He leaned forward into John’s face until the whiskers of his moustache were touching the boys nose.

“You’re name is the one I gave you. Children do not choose their names, their parents do. Stop pretending you’re a boy and do. As. _You’re. **Told**_.” His voice was low and even, but said with the same intensity as if he were shouting. John’s eyes flinched, his throat was thick. _Oh god I’m going to cry. Fucking hell._

John turned away, not really sure what his plan was, just to not let his father see him cry. He just started walking. Whether his father was just so shocked of how he responded, or what, John didn't care. All that mattered was he didn't follow. Just before he reached his room, Harry was walking down for dinner. John was sure his face was streaked with tears by now, but he kept his face as neutral as he could and ignored her.

“Damn…” She whispered under her breath.

He shut and locked the door behind him, barely making it to his bed before his face twisted up and he started sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. that was pretty intense. Idk if I should tag any trigger warnings? Let me know if one is needed. Like I said, I'm home sick. So tbh there's probably going to be some smut published by the end of the day. May or may not be our cute little trans boys here :3

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, it's not a heart attack Sherlock! It's the beginning of a new chapter in your life, so buckle up and enjoy the steaming pot of angsty teen/trans love!


End file.
